


The Stagehand

by im_fairly_witty



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 01:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13694106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_fairly_witty/pseuds/im_fairly_witty
Summary: The story of the stagehand who leaned on the wrong lever at the wrong time, the accidental murderer of Ernesto De la Cruz.





	The Stagehand

**The Stagehand**

 

Jorge Gutierrez had worked at the Grande Teatro for over thirty years, but the night that Ernesto De la Cruz came to perform was an extra special one. 

Jorge had seen countless performances, had moved hundreds of set pieces, had seen electricity be installed, helped dozens and dozens of musical numbers come and leave the performance hall. But this one was different. This was the man that had written “Remember Me,” the song that Jorge’s daughters had grown up singing and dancing to, the song that Jorge owned on two different record sets, the song that somehow seemed to get to him in a way that no other song ever had.

And Jorge has heard a  _ lot  _ of songs.

That night Jorge had bribed Juan to give him his shift for the evening (it had cost Jorge taken a bottle of good tequila and a new pack of cards, no one wanted to give up  _ that  _ shift) but Juan had given it up, teasing Jeorge that at his age he should have the chance to see whatever performance he wanted.

Jorge had rolled his eyes and laughed off Juan’s comment. At fifty-six Jorge was no spring chicken, but he was hardly the old man the rest of the younger theatre crew always joked him to be. And his heart problems weren’t  _ that _ bad. Besides, Jorge had been taking his médico’s pills religiously after his last heart attack scare the year before. As long as he avoided extra excitement he was as hale and hearty as any of the boys running around the theatre under his supervision. Pffft. Old man indeed… 

The other stagehands had heard how excited Jorge was about that night’s performance, they all were of course, but they made sure to arrange themselves that night so that “Abueltio” could be right in the wings with full view of the stage at the grand finale.

And the performance was just as amazing as they’d all hoped, all the mechanics worked perfectly, the pyrotechnics all launched correctly, all the dancers hit their cues marvelously. And when De la Cruz sang,  _ everyone _ melted a little bit to hear him. 

Jorge was a professional. He’d worked in that very theatre for more than thirty years, so he  _ knew  _ that the bell’s pully lever could take his weight. He wasn’t an idiot, he’d leaned on the very lever countless times before. But for some reason that night things were different.

For some reason that night it almost felt like he been shoved, making him fall onto the lever as it clicked out of place, sending a rope flying with a hiss that made his heart clench. There was a devastatingly helpless moment that seemed to last for an eternity as Jorge watched the stage wide-eyed, already knowing exactly what was going to happen.

It was the worst moment of his life.

It was also one of the last.

As the dust of the fallen bell settled, and the screams echoed through the performance hall, and men shouted and clambered on-stage to try and lift the bell away (a task that would take an hour and a half), no one noticed an old stagehand hidden in the shadows of the stage wings. A stagehand who had collapsed to the ground, cap fallen off, his hands clutched to his chest. 

No one realized thought to look for Jorge for nearly twenty minutes, and by then he was long gone.

Waking up dead is always disorienting. Waking up dead right next to your musical idol is even more so.

The center for new arrivals was all bright lights and attentive nurses. Jorge was seated without know how or when he’d sat, a searing pain was fading from his chest, but he couldn’t remember what from. He was holding his old hat, so that was something,  _ but why were his fingers made of bone. _

Seated next to him was someone else staring at their own bone hands in shock and disbelief. It didn’t take Jorge long to put together who this skeleton was once he recognized the blue mariachi outfit and large skeletal chin. It took him even less time after that to realize what must have happened to himself then.

Jorge had  _ really _ been hoping to reach eighty.

De la Cruz did not handle death as well as Jorge did. Jorge sat quietly, unwittingly having gotten himself a front row seat to the frenzied panic, denial, anger and verbal abuse that the dead performer slung at every nurse, secretary, and security officer who dared try explain to him even  _ one more time _ that there was no way they could restore him to life. 

When people started realizing exactly who De la Cruz was things started to get better, the celebrity calming and starting to pull himself together as he realized that he was still among fans. By the time Ernesto was escorted to a private room by a pair of fawning nurses who’d been big fans of his while alive, De la Cruz had completely recovered the smooth smile Jorge had seen on the covers of all his vinyl albums.

It was twenty minutes before someone realized that Jorge was still sitting there, the flustered nurse apologizing profusely, explaining that things always got a little loco when a celebrity died. Jorge understood. As she pulled out a clipboard to gather his information, Jorge decided to get things out of the way now and hesitantly told her about what had happened in the moments before he’d died.

Her eyes had widened and she’d clicked her pen in surprise, but overall she looked for more interested than horrified. When Jorge mentioned this she’d actually laughed, telling him that his accident had gotten the most beloved modern celebrity to the Land of the Dead, and that there would be thousands of eager fans who would want to eagerly shake his hand over the coming months. 

Jorge hadn’t quite believed her, but for the rest of the day every time she enthusiastically introduced him as “The man who accidentally killed Cruz” he was met every time with a roaring guffaw, a slap on the back, a heartily shaken hand, or at the very least a cheerfully sympathetic chuckle. 

But the time Jorge was handed off to a small crowd of excited relatives (Abuelita Clara was a good a hugger as he remembered and seeing his Sarah again after five long years was a tender moment for all) Jorge didn’t know  _ what _ to think about what had happened in the theatre anymore. He’d been sent off with only the direction to take things easy for the next few weeks as he adjusted.

So he did. Being dead really wasn’t that bad, not with his familia around him. There were things to get used to of course, looking in mirrors was a struggle for a long time, and the first time his hand came off he nearly fainted, but overall things were fairly pleasant. As the months went by he was urged to tell the story of his death over and over and over again, first for family, then friends, then the press. Just as the nurse had said, there were only laughs and thanks everytime he told it, which eventually wore away at the worry he’d had over it.

But it ALL came back the day a year later when he received a gold foil invitation in the mail to attend an event creatively titled “The Sunrise Spectacular.”

He would have quietly thrown away the invitation if Sarah hadn’t caught him with it first, and before he knew it he and Sarah had sent their RSVP of acceptance.

Meeting Ernesto was, like most things in the Land of the Dead, not what Jorge had expected. First of all, it was in front of a very enthusiastic crowd at a huge party, Jorge’s arm nearly came off several times during the evening from all the handshaking. Second, Ernesto was nothing but smiles, laughing and joking about how he had Gorge to thank for the party that night, for reuniting him with so many of his fans, for the new mansion tower he had already under construction.

But most unnerving of all was how  _ fake _ De la Cruz seemed up close. There wasn’t a thread out of place on the celebrity’s outfit, but somehow all Jorge could see was the raging and terrified man he’d seen only a year before. The man that had beaten down anyone who got too close until he’d gotten what he wanted. This man that was graciously accepting Jorge’s rehearsed apology seemed as much of a performance as any of the thousands of stage productions that Jorge had seen on stage during his life.

Jorge received another invitation the next year, which he politely turned down before Sarah saw it. The next year there was no invitation, which suited Jorge just fine. 

It wasn’t until decades later, after an unusually spectacular Sunrise Spectacular, that Jorge finally found out what it was that had seemed off about De la Cruz. He wasn’t at all sure how he felt about finding out he’d killed a murderer, and the press never found out either since he firmly turned down anyone who came knocking to ask about it.

Except one.   

Jorge dressed up in his best vest and hat for the day he met Hector Rivera. He’d seen a whole lot of celebrities before from working at a theatre for so long, but this time was different. This time was special. This time he was meeting the man who had  _ actually  _ written “Remember Me,” the song Jorge had always sung more gently than Ernesto’s version anyway, the song that he had despaired over for years, wondering how someone so artificial could have written something with so much heart hidden at its core, the song that had gotten to him in a way that no other song ever had.

Jorge had heard a lot of songs during his life, and during his death too, but finally getting to meet the cheerfully down-to-earth man who’d written his very favorite one? Who was the realest feeling person Jorge had ever met? Who didn’t even bring up the bell accident, but had simply enjoyed a long and relaxed conversation between them about their daughters?

Now that, that was really something special. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this shallow prose headcanon history! Jorge is the true hero of Coco and I'm glad I got asks about him on tumblr.
> 
> \- Wit
> 
>  
> 
> im-fairly-whitty.tumblr.com


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